who are the greatest geniuses in cinema history?

 We admire geniuses, we love them, but they discourage us. They are great concentrations of intellect and emotion, we feel that they have soaked up all the available power, monopolizing it and leaving none for us. We feel that if we cannot be as they, we can be nothing. Beside them we are so plain, so hopelessly threadbare. How they glitter, and with what an imperious way they seem to deal with circumstances, even when they are wrong.

   - Lionel Trilling, Introduction to Orwell's Homage to Catalonia


   The idea of genius, along with attempts to explain or define it, has always been a slippery slope. Greater thinkers than I have opined on the subject, at length, and there’s no shortage of commentaries on the ‘Net. But just what is genius? What are its precise boundaries? Is genius something we’re born with, or can it be learned and cultivated? Are ‘geniuses’ that different from the rest of us? Do some individuals simply have a greater flair for publicity and image? Who can say where genius ends and self-promotion begins? Are 'geniuses' really grifters in disguise?

   Or do those we deem genius simply have more energy, determination and persistence than the rest of us? Were these the only qualities necessary then figures like Ed Wood and Harry Stephen Keeler would be right up there among the all time greats. And for all their respective cult followings, the conventional wisdom would vote against calling Wood or Keeler a genius. Obviously some qualitative factors have to enter into the equation: at minimum a true genius has to be good at his chosen artistic (or otherwise) mode of expression.

   But more to the point, how can we apply the notion of genius to the movies? [1] Does it even make sense to mention the term in connection with the movies? Interesting that other art forms – music, literature, painting, sculpture – have canons that are pretty well solidified. Accordingly, the individuals who merit the title have long been identified.

   However … (and it’s a big however), film is a unique art form. Among other things it combines several art forms in its final product, all of which makes it more difficult to arrive at parameters, much less who qualifies. The challenges, it seems, are many, but can be broken down into a few basics. First, for all the huffing and puffing of the auteur theory, film is ultimately a collaborative art (alas, among the downsides of said collaborative art is studio interference in the finished product, perhaps most [in]famously practiced in the various mangled productions of Orson Welles). There's also the reality that film is largely dominated by technology, and the witches’ brew final product is almost always a case of the whole never quite equaling the sum of the parts. The other issue is that cinema is, for better or worse, a quintessentially commercial art, and matters of aesthetics can never be completely separated from mass, some would say crass, consumerism.

   Further, movies didn’t always have the highbrow cachet they enjoy today. Indeed, for the first half century or so of their very existence the movies were viewed as a commodity, and the idea that they were great art was considered folly at best. All that changed in 1952 with the U. S. Supreme Court’s decision on Joseph Burstyn, Inc. v. Wilson (also referred to as the Miracle Decision) in which the court held that cinema was indeed an artistic medium and among other things entitled to First Amendment protection.

   For our deliberations here, however, it’s the aforementioned collaborative nature of cinema that’s the monkey wrench. To wit, and for better or worse, in the context of cinema we use the term ‘genius’ almost solely in connection with directors [2]. Occasionally screenwriters, cinematographers, and performers get a mention, and, very occasionally, producers. But this reveals a decided prejudice for the creative side and diminishes those active in the, arguably equally important, technical, management and promotional areas. In the technical and -like areas, along with the obvious candidates of editors and cinematographers, do we include wardrobe designers, art directors, set designers, special effects wizards, makeup artists, hairdressers, film restoration specialists, titles designers?

   If we define genius as someone who made a signal impact and influence on the art, we’d have to give serious consideration to the much maligned movie moguls, especially those of the Golden Age, the Harry Cohns and Louis Mayers of this world, alongside the more aesthetically correct auteur producers like Val Lewton, Irving Thalberg and Daryl Zanuck. But if we include studio executives, how about the powers behind the throne like Ida Koverman at MGM during Mayer’s reign? And while we’re talking management, should agents figure into the mix? In the technical department, a case might be made for Technicolor guru Natalie Kalmus.

   Whatever the parameters, be they aesthetic, commercial or technical, is a consistent body of high level work over a long period of time sufficient? Do we forgive the occasional misfire? Is one transcendent work sufficient? Do historical elements figure into the mix? Are the works of Sofia Coppola and Kathryn Bigelow less significant because they appeared a century after those of Lois Weber and Germaine Dulac?

   Here I invoke the oft-noted and self-defeating caveat that it’s meaningless to create lists like these, perhaps worse than meaningless, since tastes, perceptions, and even definitions inevitably change over time (translation: it’s all very subjective). And yet, and for all my long winded reservations above, I thought it might be fun to list my choices of the top ten cinematic geniuses of all time. It pained me to cut it off at ten – I was tempted to lengthen it to twenty. (Confession: there are two ties, so to be perfectly technical, this is a list of twelve). In any event, as a compromise I include an honorable mention section of arguably lesser lights whose contributions, while significant, and all possessing at least some spark of genius, were nonetheless in my opinion more specialized or of a lesser degree in areas like aesthetics, impact, and influence.

   I’ll admit my selections betray a certain favoritism for the offbeat, experimental, independent and subversive. There’s also an undeniable Hollywood/Euro bias, along with a preference for the artistic side over the technical or managerial. Still, perspicacious readers may find themselves scratching their heads at the absence of some pretty big names. Indeed, a few of the entries, especially the honorable mentions, may well be cringe inducing to some tastes. And no, in case you wondered, Ed Wood doesn’t make the cut, though the thought did occur to me. Nonetheless, and echoing the sentiment above, some of the all-time greats are conspicuously absent. They are familiar and we needn’t mention them by name. In one sense these greats of cinema, and here I refer mostly to directors, made the same film over and over, and did so supremely well within the confines of budget, studio, genre and era. The stories, performers and techniques may have varied, but the underlying philosophic and aesthetic vision was always the same, most of the time anyway. Such individuals were expert at creating expert films, films that were exceptionally well made but lacking that special something – dare I say, genius – that characterizes the work of perhaps less proficient, less consistent, artists who nonetheless created films that were more compelling and exciting.

   In any event, my own bottom line: to be designated a cinematic genius, an individual had to create works that were not only of high intrinsic value, but more important, new, exciting or groundbreaking, that allowed us to experience the medium, and by extension the world, and perhaps ourselves, in fresh and unexplored ways. Helming a work, or works, that today we consider revolutionary wasn’t a requirement, but it didn’t hurt. 

   I lean toward multi-taskers philosophically, and depending on how one defines these things, a majority of my top ten might be considered such, less so for the honorable mentions. In any case most of the top tier choices are hardly shocking, though a couple may raise eyebrows. It’s obvious I prefer the old over the new: the test of time has to count for something. On the other hand, as opined above, even a consistently high level of work over time in itself doesn’t qualify as genius [3]. I’ve demurred from any life’s work summaries as most of the folks on the list have had a ton written about them already. So, with drumroll, my choices are (listed more or less in chronological order):

Lois Weber
Charlie Chaplin
Fritz Lang
Irving Thalberg
Busby Berkeley
Orson Welles
tie: Val Lewton
       Maya Deren
Bernard Herrmann
Roger Corman
tie: Federico Fellini,
      Rainer Werner Fassbinder
  

  Honorable mention: John Alton, Kenneth Anger, Michelangelo Antonioni, Fred Astaire, Ingmar Bergan, Robert Bresson, Tod Browning, Jack Cardiff, William Castle, Jean Cocteau, Joan Crawford,  Walt Disney, Carl Dreyer, Germaine Dulac, Ray Harryhausen, Charles Laughton, Herschell Gordon Lewis, Peter Lorre, Guy Madden, Frances Marion, Georges Méliès,  Russ Meyer, Carmen Miranda, Alla Nazimova, Mabel Normand, Leni Riefenstahl, George Romero, Mack Sennett, Andrei Tarkovsky, Gregg Toland, Dalton Trumbo, Douglas Trumbull, Edgar Ulmer, Peter Ustinov, Jean Vigo, John Waters, James Whale, Daryl Zanuck.

[1] I’ve scoured the ‘Net and other sources and have yet to find a satisfactory definition, at least one that describes genius in scientific, measurable terms. Even the most reputable sources resort to a subjective, airy vagueness. This from the Cambridge Dictionary (actually a pretty good summary, but eminently lacking in particulars): “ … very great and rare natural ability or skill, especially in a particular area such as science or art.” Similarly the venerable OED chimes in with: “ … inborn exalted intellectual power; instinctive and extraordinary imaginative, creative, or inventive capacity, frequently opposed to talent.” Actually the OED version gets subtly closer to what I look for in a work or individual to merit the label ‘genius.’
    Still, such definitions are at best a good start; the phrases used to define genius could well describe any number of bright, talented folks who aren’t geniuses. What’s lacking is that special something, that magic that separates genius from the merely talented or gifted. The same principle applies to other, non-artistic, areas like physics, chemistry, mathematics, philosophy, and medicine. Then there are the problem fields like public service, commerce, sports and history. Can a head of state, government bureaucrat, military commander, lawyer, business tycoon, chess player, football coach, political operative, or historian (or any nonfiction author ... film critic, anyone?) ever merit the mantle of genius? By the way, not a new observation, but is genius merely the flip side, the sunny side if you like, of madness?

[2] Indeed, were a poll taken today to anoint the greatest cinema genius of all time, the consensus choice, at least among hardcore film buffs, would probably be Chaplin, though to be sure his would likely be a plurality choice. At the same time prestigious bodies routinely proclaim Hitchcock, Welles, or Ozu as the best director, though seldom Chaplin, all of which tends to illustrate just how elusive the concept can be.* 
    Further confirmation of the vagaries of assigning a ranking of genius, as least as it applies to film history, is that only two of Chaplin's films, City Lights and Modern Times, even cracked the top 250 of the august BFI/Sight & Sound 2022 poll of the 'greatest movies of all time,' placing tied for 36th and tied for 78th respectively. Both are honorable if not exactly top tier rankings, and incredibly, both finished below the likes of Taxi Driver, Do the Right Thing, and Mulholland Dr. 
    Chaplin films do somewhat better in the, similarly much-cited, AFI Top 100 poll (2007), with City Lights, The Gold Rush, and Modern Times placing 11th, 58th, and 78th respectively. The caveat is that the AFI poll considers only American produced films, though it also includes a few British-made films that were financed by American studios.

    * In the same above -referenced BFI/S&S poll [2022] Chaplin chimed in at 27th in the 'greatest directors of all      
  time' category, below quite a few, arguably lesser, lights.

[3] One might also assert that the difference between genius and the exceptionally talented craftsman is a sometimes fuzzy one, and to take it one step further, what separates the reliable professional from the dreaded moniker hack can be a precariously thin line. It’s only fair to add that history has taught us that the studios, certainly in the studio era, (almost) always preferred a reliable craftsman/hack at the helm to an erratic genius. Plus ça change …

Further reading:

Marjorie Garber, “Our Genius Problem,” Atlantic Monthly, v290n5 (Dec. 2002): 64-72.
Darrin T. McMahon, Divine Fury: A History of Genius, Basic Books, 2013.
Andrew Robinson, What Has Become of Genius?

mimosa by starlight: the Lewtonian vibe of The Uninvited (1944)

 

*** MINOR SPOILERS in the comments below ***


“They call them the haunted shores. These stretches of Devonshire and Cornwall and Ireland which rear up against the westward ocean. Mists gather here. And sea fog. And eerie stories.”


The 1940s were the golden age of the cinematic ghost story. Two close relatives, the supernatural fantasy and the supernatural noir, also peaked in that decade. Audiences flocked to these new kinds of horror films. Battered by true and very violent horrors of world war, perhaps they were ready for something otherworldly, but presented in a quieter, more reflective manner. Whatever the ultimate explanation or aesthetic classification, arguably the best of the ghost movie lot is 1944’s The Uninvited, which has been described as the first movie to treat ghosts in a serious manner. The usual ghostly suspects are adapted and presented in surprisingly original ways to craft a story both conventional and offbeat, unsettling and ultimately not so scary after all. But the very fact that Uninvited mostly embraces the ghost story conventions, along with its quintessentially Forties black & white look [1], accounts for a great deal of its charm and continued appeal.  

At about the same time a group of horror films produced at RKO and helmed by maverick producer Val Lewton gently nudged the envelope even further, in turn creating and perfecting the aforementioned subgenre of supernatural noir [2]. It’s tempting to view the Lewton films, with their low-keyed thrills, minimalist sets and chiaroscuro lighting, as setting off a trend that peaked later in the decade as other studios brought forth similar products. But the Lewton canon exist in such a self-contained, sui generis world, that their unique alchemy could never be duplicated, and thus any idea of influence is tenuous at best.  Still … in some cases the resemblances are uncanny [3], and such is the case with The Uninvited. It’s in this context that we’ll note similarities in style and content to the Lewton films.

If Uninvited does not exactly invent the supernatural mystery overlaid with family secrets and aberrant pathology, it crystallizes all the elements in a way that previously had not been done, and does so with a deft touch that subtly mixes atmosphere, story and low-keyed acting, along the way sneaking in some surprising shadings of plot and character. Thus Uninvited is as much psychological drama as ghost tale, with much of the terror inflicted, sometimes self-inflicted, by living mortals with their own issues. Uninvited is also an old fashioned romance, even if it’s difficult to pin down the romantic protagonists, especially so, since, structurally and thematically, the romantic element is always subordinated to the eerie goings on.

And inasmuch as all the above-mentioned themes and stylistics are present in the Lewton films, it would seem a curious contradiction then that none of the Lewtons is of the haunted house variety, although two of them, Isle of the Dead and I Walked with a Zombie, contain characters that for all the world resemble spectral images. One might stretch the definition of a ghostly presence and also cite Simone Simon’s angel from the beyond in Curse of the Cat People. A mention is also due to Curse of the Cat People’s old Gothic house that’s gloomy and creepy, and certainly has a past, but is not literally haunted.

the ghost always rings twice ...

However, when considering similarities between the Val Lewton films and Uninvited, the inevitable starting point has to be mood and atmosphere [4]. Ultimately what binds the Lewton oeuvre and Uninvited is this less direct approach to shivers, most vividly expressed through the visual language. Most of the supernatural feel and general sense of unease is created by the gloomy lighting, minimal special effects and shadowy camera work that bathes the goings on in perpetual semi-darkness. This sense of never quite getting a clear vision parallels the inner motivations of the characters, which are often ambiguous and unclear. Special kudos then to Uninvited’s cameraman Charles Lang and Lewton’s favorite cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca.

But let’s move on to actors, and more important, characters and their various inter-relationships. First, to point out two relatively minor but not totally insignificant connections: that’s the presence of Lewton favorites Alan Napier and Elizabeth Russell. Napier takes the role of the kindly but mostly ineffectual doctor, and Russell – well, accounts vary. One is that she’s the sitter for the two large portraits of Mary Meredith, while other versions credit her as being the model for the ectoplasmic ghost image we see at the end of the film. Some sources credit the ghost as being played by Lynda Grey [5].

As for characters a good place to start is with nominal leads Roderick and Pamela Fitzgerald (Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey), a brother and sister pair easing into middle age. They have an unconventional sibling relationship that borders on the kinky: they live together in London, take vacations together, and eventually buy and reside in the haunted house. There’s no mention of parents or other living family members (note: their, presumably deceased, mother is mentioned, but only in passing), and when we first encounter them neither has any significant romantic attachments, that we know of anyway (except perhaps to each other). Since the story is set in the late 1930s one can only wonder what became of Roderick and Pamela during the war.

In any event the two siblings function more like husband and wife, down to the good-natured bickering. Pamela wins most of the arguments as she seems to be the dominant partner. Thus it’s natural for us to think she’s the older, bossy sibling, which she indeed may be in the story, but actually Ray Milland was about five years senior to Ruth Hussey.

Roderick and Pamela set the tone for several unusual family relationships in Uninvited, a dynamic not uncommon in the Lewton films, where incestuous, ossified human relations contribute to the moody atmospherics. Roderick’s and Pamela’s arrangement also foreshadows even more shocking, ‘unnatural’ revelations in Uninvited – but more on this later. The offbeat sibling dynamic is softened by the gradual pairing off of Roderick with Stella, and later, Pamela with the doctor, though even here we sense that something isn’t quite right: Milland was nearly twenty years Gail Russell’s senior – she was nineteen when she made the film and if anything looks younger – and his courting her seems just a bit creepy. Likewise there’s scant chemistry between Pamela and the doctor: neither has shown any romantic feelings toward the other. It’s just tossed out as the promise of a happy ending and hardly has the ring of truth.

In any case, other Lewton-like aspects of Uninvited include: the main character is a creative artist, in this case a music critic and composer; it takes a while for the thrills to appear, as there’s a fairly lengthy first act that sets things up; a diseased eroticism hovers, hothouse-like, over all the goings on; the sound of weeping emerges from the darkness from no discernible source; a somewhat naïve yet headstrong young woman ventures into dangerous territory – both literal and figurative – recalling the famed Val Lewton walks; Stella’s wafty persona suggests a memorable Lewton heroine, the enigmatic Jacqueline in Seventh Victim; gentle breezes and the nearby ocean assume prominence, if only as backdrop; personal inter-relationships are implied and incomplete, and thus plot threads are left unresolved; the scent of mimosa recalls Irena’s perfume in Cat People; the principal villain is a woman, two women actually if we count both Miss Holloway and Mary Meredith [6]; the women characters tend to be independent, older, dominating, or sinister (Stella being the exception), while the men are generally bland, passive or effeminate.
Moreover, all the characters exist in a self-contained, insular universe that never mentions events happening in the rest of the world. The elephant in the living room is the unseen presence of World War II, so responsible for the dark, melancholy atmosphere, especially in the Lewton films, but never referred to directly (since Uninvited is set in 1937, WW2 has yet to occur, though storm clouds swirling on the horizon, likewise not referenced in the film, are happening in real life).


‘large audiences of questionable type …’

There’s another aspect of Uninvited that makes it not only a ghost movie classic but a cult classic as well, and that’s the portrayal of the sinister quack psychiatrist Miss Holloway. She presides imperiously over a sanitarium for nervous (read: lesbian) middle-aged women, and her presence adds a welcome touch of danger and threat (primarily to Stella). Moreover, the character is a source of continued fascination and even debate. There’s a strong, not so subtle suggestion that Mary and Miss Holloway were quite a bit more than just friends, or in their case, something beyond caregiver and patient (Miss Holloway was Mary Meredith’s nurse). Naturally Miss Holloway’s institution is named – what else? – the Mary Meredith Retreat.

Thus Uninvited has attained the status of camp favorite, and it’s tempting to look upon the Sapphic undercurrent as being (re)discovered decades later by astute critics and film historians. But this is not necessarily the case: contemporary audiences were apparently in on the coded references too:

Father Brendan Larnen of the Catholic Legion of Decency wrote a complaining letter to Will Hays, head of the infamous Production Code Administration which censored Hollywood movies. Father Larnen noted that “… in certain theatres large audiences of questionable types attended this film at unusual hours, drawn by certain erotic and esoteric elements in the film.”

Yes, it was there all along, hiding in plain sight, and the audiences (at least those of 'certain questionable type') knew it. The relationship between Miss Holloway and Mary then has a not unappealing romantic tinge, a proverbial longing for the abyss and a state of transcendence, expressed via a love and fidelity that goes unto and beyond death itself [8].

Cornelia Otis Skinner’s brilliant camp take on Miss Holloway is one of the more overt portrayals of a lesbian in a mainstream film in the Forties, right up there with Judith Anderson’s unforgettable Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca. The irony is that, in our seen-and-heard-it-all Twenty-first Century world, Miss Holloway is likely to be viewed as an anachronism, a quaint, almost comic, relic from a more innocent age, and objections to her depiction would be along the lines that she’s a cruel caricature.

In any case, tradition dictated that the evil lesbian had to die or go mad at the end. In our case Miss Holloway is still very much alive when we last see her. She disappears from the movie with no further explanation as to her ultimate fate, but we can infer from her ramblings and the far off look in her eyes that she’s well on her way to going mad. 
[Trivia: Cornelia Otis Skinner is portrayed by Gail Russell, yes, Uninvited's Gail Russell, in the film adaption of Our Hearts Were Young and Gay (1944), a chronicle of the picaresque adventures of Cornelia and travel companion Emily Kimbrough in France in the 1920s. Considering Miss Skinner's intense performance in Uninvited of a more or less out-in-the-open Sapphic character, a nice, if unintended, ironic touch then is the word 'gay' in the book's title].

There are other unsung (and sung) heroes and heroines beyond character and atmosphere. Composers Roy Webb and Victor Young merit special mention. Young’s lushly romantic score for Uninvited contrasts with Webb’s low-keyed music for the Lewton films, and yes, we must give the obligatory shoutout to the haunting and unforgettable tune “Stella by Starlight.” The wardrobe designs by Edith Head in Uninvited and Renié in the Lewtons are unshowy and nondescript but get the job done. Much credit must also be given to the mise-en-scène, so kudos to the art directors and set designers, and just plain directors Lewis Allan (Uninvited) and Jacques Tourneur, who directed the first three, arguably best, Lewton films. But perhaps pride of place must go to a surprising contribution, and that’s the wise and witty scripts by Frank Partos and Dodie Smith (Uninvited), and Ardel Wray and Dewitt Bodeen (Lewtons). With no disrespect to atmosphere or the actors, which remain paramount, these films wouldn’t be what they are without the literate, incisive dialogue, always delivered spot on by well cast performers.

If there’s one weakness in Uninvited, it’s the far too many attempts at humor, most of which fall flat and impede the suspenseful narrative. This is one time where Uninvited parts ways with the Lewton films, which are conspicuously bereft of humor and bathed in unremitting moodiness and melancholy. But such a minor quibble amongst the proverbial embarrassment of riches. If anything, the passage of time has only added to Uninvited’s luster. It looks back fondly to a quieter, less obvious time in Hollywood, and still beguiles with a sense of mystery and incompleteness.

However, and as much as Uninvited is a great, or near-great film, both differing from and also possessing the best qualities of its era, for me it doesn’t quite scale the existential heights of the best Lewton films. It’s difficult to put into words why this is the case. Paradoxically it might be the very fact that Uninvited is a full-on big budget production by a major studio, and as a result there’s a certain bloated, overbaked quality to its otherwise elegant veneer. By contrast the Lewton entries never pretend to be anything more, or less, than B movies, and thus they have a stripped down, to-the-bone gestalt that gets right to the matter at hand.

There may be another explanation, though it tends to contradict what I’ve written above. Despite all the spiritual shenanigans, Uninvited is at heart a romance presented in a romantic, old school way (Young’s melodious score is one tipoff). But truth be told, the romance in Uninvited is more about the ghosts, i.e. the romance of the ghosts than between human beings, as well as the romantic pull of a good ghost story. More to point, there's the romance with the ghosts, that is, Miss Holloway's devotion to the dead Mary Meredith, and Stella's longing for her mother, who turns out to be Carmel. There’s a much stronger emotional component to these relationships than the totally unconvincing ‘romance’ between Pamela and the doctor, and even Roderick’s somewhat tentative courtship of a reluctant Stella.

By contrast, the Lewton films are essentially dark, fatalistic meditations and most definitely not romances, the occasional Freudian undertones that spice up a love story subplot notwithstanding. Consequently, Uninvited is of its time, while the Lewtons have a timeless quality and have stayed fresh and modern.

Whatever their relative merits, both Uninvited and the Lewton films treated the subject matter – and the audience – with great respect, opting for intelligent stories and understated effects that leave much to the imagination. Uninvited in particular can be recommended as an old-fashioned ghost tale best viewed late at night, candles lit and fireplace crackling full blast.  


[1] Not so coincidentally, the Forties were also the summit of black and white movies. It was perhaps inevitable that supernatural films emphasizing mood and atmosphere went out of fashion in the Technicolor-drenched Fifties and Sixties. There were exceptions: schlockmeister William Castle’s House on Haunted Hill, from 1958, has such a camp feel to it that it hardly counts. Likewise the less-than-stellar 13 Ghosts. However, 1964’s The Haunting, a kind of homage to Val Lewton, must merit a mention. Haunting was directed by Robert Wise, who, not surprisingly, directed two of the Lewton films and was an admirer of the Lewton aesthetic.  

[2] The films are: Cat people, I Walked with a Zombie, The Leopard Man, Curse of the Cat People, The Seventh victim, The Ghost Ship, The Body Snatcher, Isle of the Dead, and Bedlam. To label these films supernatural noir is as good a moniker as any, but it’s somewhat inaccurate: at most only three of the Lewton films deal with overtly supernatural themes. The others might varyingly be described as domestic melodramas, adventure stories or historical dramas, all with a touch of horror thrown in.  

]3] Other Lewton-like films of the era include Alias Nick Beal, Jane Eyre, The Spiritualist, and especially The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.

[4] Interesting in the context of atmosphere is the film’s signature scene, which invokes a Lewton-like sense of unease. This is where Roderick and Stella visit the studio, and while he is playing the piano the candles turn dim and his playing takes on a darker tinge. Stella rushes to the cliff edge, apparently possessed by a spirit that wishes her ill. Similar tableaux of two persons, one playing the piano and one listening nearby, in which the music changes from mellifluous to sinister, occur in the horror films Dracula’s Daughter and House of Dracula. Another vintage Lewton-esque scene is when Roderick and Pamela first hear the ghost weeping while they listen atop the staircase, candles in hand.

[5] The redoubtable IMDB muddies the waters further: it confirms Russell as the model for the portrait, but lists both Grey and Russell as the Mary Meredith ghost.

[6] In the Lewton films, as well as Uninvited, the female villain is a mysterious Other (sometimes even a ‘monster’), defined by ethnicity (Irena in Cat People and Thea in Isle of the Dead), catatonia (Jessica in Zombie), superstitious beliefs (Kyra in Isle of the Dead), family rejection (Barbara Farren in Curse of the Cat People) or sexual orientation (Miss Holloway and Mary in Uninvited). The sympathetic Jacqueline in Seventh Victim is a kind of villain, living a bohemian lifestyle that’s far outside society’s norms. Even in Bedlam Nell Bowen is (mistakenly) labeled a ‘monster’ (i.e. madwoman) and confined to the infamous asylum. And of course Carmel, a foreigner, thus quintessentially Other, is initially taken to be the villain in Uninvited.
    Aside: Although she's obviously playing an English character in a very English setting, Gail Russell is the only character in Uninvited who doesn't speak with a British accent. Even with her cultivated American inflection, it would be a reach to suggest that Russell's accent is even mid-Atlantic. Still, it doesn't detract from her wondrous performance, especially praiseworthy considering Uninvited was her first substantial role in a major production.

[7] Homoerotic touches are present in several of the Lewton films, most prominently in Cat People and Seventh Victim, both of which have implied lesbian subtexts.

[8] Not for nothing that when we view Miss Holloway ensconced at her mausoleum-like retreat, the music in the background is Wagner’s ‘Liebestod’ (Love’s Death) from Tristan und Isolde. Aside: some sources cite Pamela and even Stella as also being gay.* Perhaps, perhaps not, depending on how one reads the clues. These were the censor-laden 1940s, when everything had to be viewed - and scripted - through a subtextual prism. So who can say? On the other hand, that such an obviously Sapphic character as Miss Holloway could be smuggled into the story, in the open as it were, is all the more remarkable.
   * The notion that Stella is gay is based on the above-mentioned idea that she’s in love with her mother, or more specifically, the ghost of her mother, which is pretty creepy even for a 1940s ghost story.

brief candles: Mae Clarke

   It may seem a contradiction to speak of Mae Clarke in the context of brief candles since she lived to the age of 81 and her career in show business spanned the better part of five decades. But the ‘brief’ in this case refers to her, alas criminally short, run – not even one decade – as a leading lady in prestige films. Of course Mae Clarke is guaranteed her place in cinema immortality, if dubiously so, as the recipient of the grapefruit in the face compliments of gangsta James Cagney. Fans of horror films also remember her as Henry Frankenstein’s bride to be Elizabeth in the original 1931 version of Frankenstein. Elizabeth barely escapes the clutches of the monster but Miss Clarke wasn’t so lucky. In the sequel Bride of Frankenstein she was bumped in favor of the proper and more British Valerie Hobson, thus rounding out the all-Brit cast.

   The rest of the decade was a mixed bag for Mae Clarke. She was featured in some fine films but within a few years was being relegated to B pictures. She had the misfortune of appearing in her best role early on. She was barely twenty-one years of age when she was cast as the London streetwalker Myra Deauville in Waterloo Bridge, the 1931 version, not to be confused with the better known, and not as good, Vivien Leigh remake of a few years later. Historically the 1931 Bridge is of interest in that it dates from the cusp of the talkie films just starting to hit their stride, and perhaps even more so, as being a prime example of what today we refer to as pre-Code films. She never reached this peak again though there were some admirable turns in Night World, The Impatient Maiden, Lady Killer and The Front Page, among others. But by the end of the decade her career as a major leading lady was over. In the Forties she was gradually eased into supporting roles, mostly in low budget fare.

   In subsequent years opportunities became even more limited: when she was barely in her early forties, she was often typecast as protective, motherly figures. A prime example is in 1954’s Magnificent Obsession, in which she plays the grateful mother of a child saved by the skills of genius surgeon Rock Hudson. Within a couple of years she more or less essayed the same role in I Died a Thousand Times and Wichita. Gradually she began to be consigned to cameos, bit parts and the occasional television appearance [1]. There was a comeback of sorts with a stint on the tv soap opera General Hospital in the early 1960s. Her last film appearance (uncredited) was in 1970 in something called Watermelon Man, of which she later insisted she never appeared in. She took up painting later in life and by all accounts it brought her much pleasure.

   There are several possible explanations for her rapid rise and equally rapid fall as a film actress: perhaps health issues resulting from a nervous breakdown, and later, an auto accident; bad timing; her self-enforced sabbatical to Rio De Janeiro and stumbling attempt at a comeback. But perhaps the most likely reason is that Miss Clarke’s wholesome, working class persona was at odds with the prevailing glamorous, exotic aesthetic the studios preferred for lead actresses in the 1930s and 1940s, as exemplified by the likes of Crawford, Garbo, Dietrich, Norma Shearer, Hedy Lamarr and later, Ingrid Bergman [2].

   After living for several years at the Motion Picture & Television Country House and Hospital in the Woodland Hills area of Los Angeles, Mae Clarke passed on in 1992. At the time she was working with James Curtis on an autobiography, later published in 1996 as Featured Player: An Oral Autobiography of Mae Clarke. Looked at one way, Mae Clarke’s story is the all-too familiar trajectory of an actress whose career peaked much too soon and never quite reached the heights of stardom her exceptional talent merited [3]. On the other hand we have the handful of her best films, pre-Code gems that they are, and for that we're the richer.

   But perhaps there is some divine justice, however belated, lurking in the hall of mirrors we call the entertainment industry. Mae Clarke is enjoying a kind of renaissance these days, with the growing interest in pre-Code and resultant higher profile of her 1930s films via venues like TCM and DVDs. Moreover, Mae Clarke tributes are also creeping into the ‘Net. Finally there’s a growing appreciation of her unusually structured, difficult to find autobiography.

   [1] An exception was the sympathetic prison matron in the 1955 quasi-noir Women's Prison.
Update, 31 Jan 2025: Recently I had the good fortune to capture Mae in a late career television appearance on Public Defender (I just love to stumble upon golden age actors in the twilight of their careers when they appeared via the then new, then dubious, medium of television). Anyhow Mae was spry and beautiful at forty something,* and moreover had a great scene in which she slugged and was slugged by two tough guys. To see such a classy actress of certain years** duke it out with the hoods was downright shocking for the era. Hooray for Mae and her pluck!

    * To be exact she was forty-four when the episode was filmed and I hope it's not too unchivalrous of me to opine that if anything she looked a trifle older (and was probably playing a slightly older character), which gives her scuffling with the two bad guys an even greater shock value.
    ** I use the term 'certain years' here in its broadest sense. Mae was easing into her mid and late forties, which by the standards of the era was certain years, and likewise, again as defined by the era, she was creeping into the the upper ranges of middle aged.  

   [2] About the only two major actresses of the era who played mostly proletarian and middle class characters were Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck, and even they had their share of well-bred roles. Yes, there was also Kate Hepburn, hardly a glamour girl but nonetheless a major star who usually played upper crust types.

   [3] An interesting comparison is that of the actress Kay Francis, whose career also peaked in the early Thirties but who remains largely unknown today (although there are signs of a rediscovery). Miss Francis’s star shined even brighter than Mae Clarke’s, and for a time she was one of the highest paid actresses in Hollywood, ergo one of the highest paid persons in the world. But Kay Francis had a talent for self-destruction. Disagreements with Warners over material resulted in her demotion to B movies and the non-renewal of her contract in 1939. In the 1940s her star faded quickly*** and she was consigned to supporting roles and work at poverty row studios. Her last film was Wife Wanted for Monogram Pictures in 1946.
     *** Along with her star status her looks began to fade as well, possibly brought on by smoking and her lifelong fondness for alcohol.

fate takes an option: the mixed legacy of the Val Lewton horror unit at RKO

     The history of motion pictures is littered with tales of might-have-beens, false starts, and missed opportunities, all chronicled in sources as diverse as scholarly biographies to lurid scandal magazines. They tell of lives, today largely forgotten, of the once promising and can’t-miss future stars (writers and directors, too) that … weren’t.

     Especially compelling, and not so frequently examined, are the stories associated with a trend, genre or studio. An obvious example is the genre (or was it a style?) today we dub film noir, and the seemingly malevolent hold it had on the actors who portrayed the desperate characters in its cinematic universe. Indeed, their private lives were often more noir than the (anti)-heroes and -heroines they impersonated onscreen. To wit: in one of the more infelicitous timings in American cultural history, the noir era counted among its ranks not only actors but many directors and screenwriters with leftist political sympathies. Thus their fate: the persecution by the infamous House Un-American Activities Committee and -like groups, one of the results being the blacklisting of not a few unfortunate souls. It's probably the most conspicuous example of the curse of noir and its extension to real life drama [1].

     But we’d like to focus on another, less well-known, group of ill-fated individuals, with their own attendant maledictions. They were associated with the production unit at RKO Pictures specializing in horror films in the 1940s heralded by maverick producer Val Lewton. The nine films Lewton oversaw from 1942 to 1946 created and perfected the sub-genre of supernatural noir. Conveyed through an aesthetic language similar to that of film noir, these hymns to the night shared with noir a fatalistic, no-exit pessimism and dark world view, though of a different kind [2].

     Usually seeking material gain, the edgy characters in noir employed methods both legal and otherwise to achieve their aims, and were often menaced, or manipulated, by powerful, mysterious forces. Sometimes the forces were not so mysterious, but nonetheless eminently threatening – state officialdom, criminal elements, hostile foreign powers, duplicitous femmes fatales. The protagonists in the Lewton films had their own issues, but they stemmed from within, to be precise from the subterranean realms of the human psyche, the result being an existential searching for something they, and often the audience, couldn’t quite get hold of [3]. Theirs was a quest for meaning and direction in a world that seemed devoid of meaning, and moreover arbitrary and chaotic in its dispensation of fate.

     The characters in the Lewton films often confronted their issues by way of supernatural or other-worldly manifestations: a sexually repressed woman metamorphoses into a vicious panther; a lonely child summons an angel from the beyond; a doomed heroine seeks redemption by joining a devil cult; an adulteress becomes one of the walking dead; a no-nonsense general succumbs to ancient superstitions and eventual madness.

     In any event, and getting back to the notion of a Lewton curse, it’s only fair to list some exceptions, as any number of major and minor creative types associated with Val Lewton went on to successful, lengthy careers: directors Robert Wise, Mark Robson and Jacques Tourneur; composer Roy Webb; wardrobe designer Renié; cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca; art director Albert D'Agostino; and actors Boris Karloff, Kim Hunter, Anna Lee, Kent Smith and Henry Daniell. Moreover, not all the aborted careers were involuntary. Some were very much by choice, a prime example being Jane Randolph, so effective in Cat People and its quasi-sequel Curse of the Cat People. One of her best roles during this time was in the noir classic T-Men (1947), in which she was cast against type as a ruthless high level apparatchik in a counterfeiting scheme. The following year her career came to an inglorious end with her appearance in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, whereupon she left films, married a rich guy and lived out her life in Europe, mostly Spain, amid much material comfort.

     But among the less fortunate there’s quite a litany of unfulfilled promises, one-hit wonders, and should-have-beens. Of course the elephant in the living room is Val Lewton himself. So creative during his peak years at RKO (and before), upon his departure in 1947 he oversaw nothing of lasting value. Times, and tastes, were changing, and the new productions he supervised were critical and commercial failures. As a result of a weak heart and years of overwork, Lewton finally succumbed to heart failure in 1951 at forty-six years of age. In many ways Lewton’s was a tantalizingly brief and unfinished career, and we can only wonder what he might have accomplished had he lived longer, another twenty years, even ten years. Perhaps the old magic would have returned, perhaps not, but we’ll never know.

     There was also the eccentric screenwriter DeWitt Bodeen, whose career likewise peaked in the 1940s. He wrote the insightful scripts – arguably the best of all the Lewton films – for Cat People and The Seventh Victim, the latter co-written with Charles O’Neal [4]. But he did little of consequence after 1950, confining himself mostly to work in television and film criticism. He left Hollywood disillusioned and died in obscurity in 1988 at the age of 79.

     Bodeen's co-author on Victim, Charles O'Neal, lived a long life (he passed in 1996 at the age of 92), but his career as a screenwriter is spotty. He had a string of mostly B films in the Forties but his career stalled around 1950, after which he worked only sporadically, contributing mostly scripts for television.    

They walked with Val lewton 

Another writer casualty, this one a victim of the aforementioned anti-communist witch hunts of the late Forties and early Fifties, was screenwriter and Lewton stalwart Ardel Wray, who helmed the scripts for I Walked with a Zombie (co-written with Curt Siodmak), Leopard Man and Isle of the Dead. Her refusal to name names in 1948 effectively ended her tenure at Paramount, the studio where she was working at the time, and furthermore resulted in her blacklisting by the entire industry. Her career as a Hollywood screenwriter was now over, and she subsequently confined her work to various and odd jobs: script reader, story analyst, movie serializations, and especially script writing for television programs in the 1960s.

     But as for actors and actresses, a good place to start is Simone Simon, who had a fairly substantial career in her native France before coming to Hollywood in the late 1930s. She became a genuine star after Cat People in 1942, and she appeared in the sequel Curse of the Cat People two years later. But then her career went southward. She returned to France in the late Forties and her roles were spotty. Her best film during this time was La Ronde, after which she appeared in fewer films. She more or less left the movies altogether in 1956, although she did appear in one final film, The Woman in Blue, in 1973. Hers was a sketchy career, and her star burned bright only intermittently.
 

     Cat People’s other cat woman was portrayed by Lewton favorite Elizabeth Russell (she appeared in five of his films, always in cameos or supporting roles). Her post-Lewton career gradually faded and by 1960 she had left the movies altogether. With the renewed appreciation of the Lewton oeuvre in the 1980s and 1990s she became a kind of cult figure, but her glory days in the movies, focused as they were in the 1940s, were limited at best. Mary Halsey, who played the pert blonde desk attendant at Alice's hotel in Cat People, frequently appeared (mostly uncredited) in B movies in the Forties, but her career was to be short lived: her last film was in 1945. She passed in 1989 at the age of seventy-five.

     The other actor from Cat People that deserves a mention is Tom Conway, who also appeared in two other Lewton films, I Walked with a Zombie and The Seventh Victim. Born in St. Petersburg, Russia, Conway was the older brother of George Sanders and has been variously described as the nice George Sanders and, less generously, the B movie George Sanders. Perpetually on the fringe of stardom, Conway was under contract to RKO and enjoyed a mildly successful run in the Forties, especially for his appearing in ten Falcon mysteries. But in the Fifties his career slowed and substantial roles came few and far between. By the Sixties he was reduced to cameos and the occasional television appearance. His last credited role was on a Perry Mason episode in 1964, in which he essentially plays himself: a washed up theatrical actor given a raw deal by the industry, reduced to touring with a Shakespearean troupe who perform readings. Conway died at the age of sixty-two, destitute and severely alcoholic, in Culver City, California, in 1967.

     I Walked with a Zombie, the film that followed Cat People and considered by some to be Lewton’s masterpiece, nonetheless had its share of casualties. Zombie’s leading lady was Frances Dee, and it’s certainly the performance she’s remembered for, but by this time her star was dimming. The rest of her career is obscure, if recalled at all. But in some respects she escaped the curse, living out a long, and by all accounts very prosperous life (she passed in 2004 at age 94).

                                             

     Tom Conway was Dee’s leading man in Zombie, but the titular character was played by Christine Gordon, whose (uncredited) credits include only five other films, all dating from the mid 1940s. But at least she has a modest place in cinema immortality as the catatonic Jessica who, appropriately enough perhaps, suffers a tragic fate in the film. An even smaller, if pivotal, role in Zombie is taken by the Panama born dancer Jieno Moxzer, who plays the voodoo priest. Moxzer’s only other film credit is Cabin in the Sky. Zombie also featured Sir Lancelot, a singer/actor who more or less cornered the market on the calypso singer cameo in the 1940s. He appeared in a string of films in the Forties, including appearances in three Lewton films. Lancelot had a long career as a singer, performing into his sixties, but by the late 1940s his career in film was essentially over. He died in 2001 at the age of 98.

     The next film, The Leopard Man, had at least four actresses whose careers were touched by the Lewton shroud. Three of them played the victims in Leopard Man and their acting tenures likewise  came to unfortunate or equivocal ends [5]. Incidentally, of the three Hispanic victims, two were played by Caucasian actresses, a fairly common practice in them days of casting ethnic roles with Anglo performers. In any case Leopard Man also included in its cast Isabel Jewell, who improbably takes the role of a card reading fortuneteller. Jewell also appeared in Seventh Victim, where she had a more substantial part and accordingly made an even stronger impression, but by this time her once promising career was decidedly on a downhill slide [6]. Leopard Man also featured the fetching Ariel Heath in an all too brief appearance as the cigarette girl at the club. IMDB lists fourteen films to her credit, mostly in uncredited roles. Her last film was in 1945, and she died in 1973 at age fifty-one.

     The fourth Lewton film, The Seventh Victim, is probably the darkest of the entire canon, and is also where we find two of the most tragic true-life cases. Jean Brooks’s saga has uncanny parallels to the doomed heroine she portrayed so effectively in Victim. She appeared as a supporting player in B pictures in the late 30s and early 40s. RKO picked her up in 1942, and she starred in six Falcon pictures with Tom Conway in addition to appearing in three Lewton films. She showed great promise with her easy confidence and screen charisma. But her personal life was another matter: she struggled with alcoholism, and there were incidents of public drunkenness and disheveled appearance. In 1946 RKO dropped her from their roster. Her last movie was the 1948 World War II exploitation film Women in the Night. For a time she worked in dinner theater but by the 1950s had disappeared from public life altogether. She eventually moved to San Francisco, where she worked in the classified department at the Examiner newspaper. Jean Brooks died of complications from alcoholism and malnutrition on Nov 25, 1963, at Kaiser Hospital in Richmond, California, at the age of forty-seven, largely forgotten. Hers was a sad case of a potential star that might have been.

     A truly tragic story is that of Erford Gage, who in Victim took the role of the Lewtonesque poet Jason Hoag. Gage’s wafty intensity brought a genuine pathos to the character and provided a tantalizing hint of what he might have become as an actor. Very sadly, it was not to be. He died in combat in World War II in Manila, the Philippines, on March 17, 1945. Victim also boasted quite a collection of colorful secondary characters and bit parts. Several of them are associated with the devil worship cult, which meets at the apartment of one Mrs. Cortez (Evelyn Brent), who has a fondness for wearing flamboyant satin outfits. Brent curiously gets a high billing in the credits despite hers being a relatively marginal character. In any case she was quite the star in the Twenties but by this time had slipped to B movies. Seventh Victim was one of her last films.

     Another career that ended in the Forties was that of Ben Bard, who plays the elegantly sinister Mr. Brun in Victim. His solid if unspectacular career included a nice run of Lewton films with appearances in Leopard Man, The Ghost Ship, and Youth Runs Wild, in addition to Victim. But in 1946 he left movies altogether to concentrate on managing acting schools. Eve March, who takes the role of Miss Gilchrist in Victim, kept busy as a supporting player in the Forties but her career sputtered in the Fifties. Her last film was an uncredited part in 1958 in The Last Hurrah. She died in Hollywood in 1974 at the age of sixty-three.

The fifth Lewton film, The Ghost Ship, is the transitional work that heralds the shift away from mood and atmosphere to story and character. And character indeed comes to the fore in the person of the totalitarian-minded Captain Stone, portrayed with edgy menace by once major star Richard Dix. But Dix’s salad days were two decades prior and by this time his career was in decline. In the Forties he appeared in B movie programmers, most notably six of the Whistler mysteries in which he played unhinged types not that dissimilar from Capt. Stone. After years of struggling with alcoholism, he retired from films in 1947 and died of a heart attack in 1949 at the age of 56.

     Rising star Russell Wade was Dix’s costar in Ghost Ship, taking the role of Capt. Stone’s reluctant protégé, Third Officer Merriam. Wade also appeared in Body Snatcher and (uncredited) Leopard Man. He was in over 60 movies in the Forties but retired from films in 1948 for a career in business and real estate in the Palm Springs area. He died in 2006 at the age of 89. Ghost Ship also boasted Skelton Knaggs, whose craggy looks and eccentric disposition seemed to predestine him to an untimely demise, which did happen, both onscreen (in Isle of the Dead) as well as off. Knaggs also appeared in one other Lewton film, Bedlam. Born in Yorkshire, England, he came to the U.S. in 1939 and by the early Forties had established himself as a reliable performer who specialized in offbeat character roles. His career slowed in the 1950s and his last film was in 1955, the year of his death from cirrhosis of the liver at the age of 43.

     1945’s Isle of the Dead, the first of three films to showcase Boris Karloff, also featured in a prominent role the ingénue Ellen Drew, who always seemed one step away from the stardom that ultimately eluded her. She does well in Isle of the Dead but is probably best remembered as a brutal gangster’s wife in the noir programmer Johnny O’Clock. By 1950 her career in film was essentially over, after which she confined her work to television. Her last appearance on the small screen was a Perry Mason episode in 1960. Isle also included the distinguished stage actress Katherine Emery, who had a modest run of film appearances in the 1940s in which she essayed mostly character roles. Her film career ended abruptly in 1953 with the 3-D cult classic The Maze.  

     Also released in 1945 was The Body Snatcher. The fetching Rita Corday took the sympathetic role of Mrs. March. Corday had a good run in the 1940s, mostly in B pictures, but her career petered out in the Fifties and her last film was in 1954. She died in 1992 at the age of age 72. Body Snatcher also featured Donna Lee in the small but pivotal role of the street singer. IMDB lists five credits for her. Her last film was in 1946 in a small role in Bedlam. The valedictory Bedlam had at least one performance worthy of a mention in present traversal. That’s the one given by Joan Newton. Even by Lewtonian standards she had a very brief career, appearing in only two movies: Riverboat Rhythm and Bedlam, the latter in the minor but crucial role as Dorothea the Dove. She passed away in 2012 at the age of 91.

Isle of broken dreams

     It’s risky, and counterintuitive, even counterproductive, to generalize in such matters, but a pattern does  emerge. Most of the individuals discussed above reached their peak in the 1940s, especially, and sometimes exclusively, in the Lewton films. For some, the career arc was already on a downward slope. In any event, most did little of substance after 1950, usually with a gradual diminishing of output, both in quality and quantity. Several struggled with alcoholism, and most died in obscurity and/or near-poverty.
Indeed, was there a kind of curse, a shroud of doom that wrapped itself around the lives of many of the actors and actresses who appeared in the Val Lewton films of the early and mid-Forties? It’s tempting to see a connection. But perhaps we have it wrong. What if the reverse is true? Could it be that the kind of films Val Lewton produced attracted a certain personality type, especially so in the case of the supporting performers and bit players. Quirky, erratic, self-destructive, unable or unwilling to conform to the Hollywood standards of career molding and good behavior, these actors brought their own imperfections to the overall alchemy of films like Seventh Victim and Isle of the Dead, to cite two of the darkest exemplars in the Lewton canon. And these individuals carried their own burdens with them, quite independent of their brief association with Val Lewton [7].

     Truth be told, there are several possible explanations for the Lewton actors’ memorable contributions to the films, and, more to the point, their eventual fates [8]. Some are offered above and some are not, and overall patterns and trends are debatable at best. Simply put, it wasn’t just fatalistic pessimism, a sorcerer’s spell, or the callousness of a depraved, indifferent industry, though some of these might have played a part. More practical issues – financial exigencies, career change, lack of ambition, bad timing, inept management, and any number of other factors, singly or in combination – no doubt figured into the mix. It could all come down to a bizarre witch's brew of contradictory motivations and circumstances, both internal and external. Either way it’s difficult, indeed well nigh impossible, to arrive at definitive conclusions, especially so given the tenuous and conflicting evidence.

     Still, it’s a peculiar and tempting conceit: an individual artiste becomes involved in, even enmeshed in, an aestheticized, artificial world of darkness – exotic, dangerous, seductive – yet upon departure, the melancholy and mystery linger on, sometimes for years, even decades. The scenario is certainly consistent with the message of these nine little pictures, these nocturnes for the dead: dark, mystical forces reach out, and with a shadowy, inexorable malevolence, perpetuate the nightmare expressed so eloquently in the movies themselves, and their bleak existential universe somehow bleeds over into the private worlds of at least some of those connected with the production unit that created the Val Lewton films.

    [1] The curse of noir didn’t confine itself to anti-communist witch hunts and show trials. Though they were never officially investigated, many individuals known for their work in noir had real lives with an undercurrent of scandal, unfulfilled promise or untimely death. Tom Neal, Cleo Moore, Jean Hagen, Lynn Baggett, Peggy Castle, Albert Dekker, Gloria Grahame, Laird Cregar, Zachary Scott, Barbara Payton, Steve Cochran, Veronica Lake, Linda Darnell, Lizabeth Scott, Susan Shaw, Gail Russell, Barbara Nichols, Jean Gillie, Rita Johnson and Helen Walker are only some of the more prominent examples. For more on noir and the Blacklist see: "Noirlisted: Film Noir and the Hollywood Blacklist".
   [2] By way of amplification, we may cite Wells, who, writing in the context of science fiction and horror, explains that the former is concerned primarily with the external, the macrocosmic, and horror is more directed at the internal, or microcosmic: “science fiction is potentially utopian [although often critically grounded] … the horror genre is almost entirely dystopic, and often nihilistic in outlook.” Paul Wells, The Horror Genre: From Beelzebub to Blair Witch, London: Wallflower, 2000, pp. 7-8.
     Applied in our context, the characters in film noir proper are driven by external things like status, social hierarchies, police excess, and the corruption of capitalism, whereas Lewton’s protagonists are more concerned with inner fears, phobias and existential worries. To be sure, noir certainly concerns itself with the inner worlds as well, and conversely there are elements of social and political criticism in the Lewton films, albeit more as background (see: Martha P. Nochimson, “Val Lewton at RKO: The Social Dimensions of Horror,” Cineaste Fall 2006, pp. 9-17; Cameron Moneo, The Horror of ‘This Pretty World’: Progressive Pessimism in Val Lewton’s Films and Novels, Thesis [M.A.], York University, Toronto, 2009).
     By the way, we refer to the Lewtonian subgenre as supernatural noir, but it might just as well be called, more accurately perhaps, 'horror noir,' or 'psychological horror,' since at most only three of the films deal with overt supernatural elements.
    [3] Boardwell explains that “characters of the classical narrative have clear-cut traits and objectives, while characters of the art cinema lack defined desires and goals.” Such a lack of a center of gravity gives them the freedom to “...express and explain their psychological states.” Ergo we never discover who they really are. [David Bordwell, “Art Cinema,” The European Cinema Reader, Routledge, 2002, p. 96]. This existential searching further underscores the Lewton films’ flavor of the highbrow and arty while paradoxically retaining their appeal as popular entertainment.
    [4] Bodeen also contributed the script to Cat People’s unofficial sequel Curse of the Cat People.
    [5] The actresses who played Teresa Delgado, Consuelo Contreras and Clo-Clo/Gabriela were, respectively, Margaret Landry, Tula Parma (Tuulikki Paananen), and Margo. Landry was American, Parma Finnish and Margo Mexican. Landry appeared in a few films in the 1940s, in mostly uncredited roles. Her last picture was in 1945. Tula Parma moved to the U.S. from her native Finland in 1940. Her career in film is sketchy. Leopard Man is listed as her only American film. From 1968 to 1973 she appeared in a few episodes of the television series Hawaii Five-O. Margo had a more substantial career than either Parma or Landry, and her Mexican bonafides were impeccable: born in Mexico City in 1917, she came to the U. S. in the early Thirties and was cast in a few films, most famously Lost Horizon. But by the early Forties and Leopard Man her career was in decline. Blacklisted in the 1950s for her activist views, film roles were scarce. She did manage to appear in one prestige production, Viva Zapata (1952). Her last film was Diary of Mad Housewife (1970).
    [6] Isabel’s later years were not always happy. In 1959, she was arrested in Las Vegas for passing bad checks. The bad check was for 37 dollars to be paid to a cab driver. Isabel was again arrested in Los Angeles in 1961 for drunk driving. She was sentenced to five days in jail and she was put on probation as a driver. Isabel Jewell died in Los Angeles, California on April 5, 1972, aged 64. Sources differ on the cause of her death. Some versions say it was suicide by taking an overdose of barbiturates, others claim she died of natural causes due to her lifelong struggle with diabetes.
    [7] Of course it’s not just actors who figure into the mix, but all the creative individuals associated with the Lewton films from 1942 to 1946 – writers, directors, cinematographers, wardrobe designers, editors, set decorators – all of whom brought their own individual, often unconventional, visions to the final product that was the nine unique films that make up the oeuvre.
    [8] Lacking anything in the way of statistical or scientific support, nonetheless I’ll posit an idea, though it tends to undercut my thesis presented above: anecdotal evidence does suggest that a goodly amount of performers from Golden Age Hollywood (Lewton veterans and otherwise), especially those in the lower tiers, ended up living out their sunset years in obscurity, poverty, or in any case greatly reduced circumstances. Indeed, it would seem very few enjoyed a later life of Norma Desmond-like opulence, and many were bitter about the time they spent working in the motion picture industry. In any case their eventual fates were attributable to non-supernatural, eminently human factors.
    In this context it’s interesting to theorize what sort of results we would get if we investigated other studios of the era, especially the small ones. Would there be similarly sad, equivocal, stories? Is the Lewton phenomenon of ill-fated lives and unfulfilled promise inevitable in the entertainment business? In particular one might wonder what kind of results an analysis of that most prominent of Golden Age studios specializing in horror films, Universal, would reveal. Might the darkness of its product be mirrored in careers and lives of its employees, both in front of and behind the camera? Fascinating stuff, and perhaps grist for an enterprising PhD student. Indeed a casual perusal suggests the principle may apply to television as well. As a case in point we may note the original Perry Mason series of the late 50s and early 60s, in which it seems an inordinate amount of guest performers had shortened careers.

 

brief candles: Estelita Rodriguez (1928-1966)

   On March 12, 1966, singer and film actress Estelita Rodriguez was found dead on the kitchen floor of her home in Van Nuys, California. She was 37 years old [1]. The cause of her death remains undetermined to this day. Accounts vary: tradition maintains that she died of influenza, but other sources cite the possibility of foul play.

   Estelita Rodriguez was Cuban-born, and after being discovered in Havana nightclubs in her teens, moved to New York City with her family in the early 1940s. A few years later she found herself acting in the movies, specializing in Westerns with Roy Rogers. She remained one of the busiest and most popular actresses in the late Forties and early Fifties, albeit always in B pictures. Most of the time she was billed simply as Estelita. But in the early Fifties she more or less left movies altogether: after 1953 she only made two more films [2], one a bonafide classic and one an all-time anti-classic.

   In any event, and in a professional high point of sorts, she appeared in the Howard Hawks/John Wayne epic Rio Bravo. Filmed in 1958, it was her only A-picture, but despite her relatively high billing in the credits her part is a small one [3]. Seven years later her career came to an inglorious end with her appearance in the camp classic Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter, in which she essayed the strong willed Mexican peasant girl Juanita. The film is often cited on worst movies of all time lists, but Estelita’s presence, along with that of leading lady Narda Onyx, adds some much needed energy to the absurd premise, slow pacing and otherwise indifferent cast. Alas, Estelita would not live to see her performance: her death occurred a few weeks before the film’s initial release in April 1966 [4].

   Happily there's a fairly generous sampling of Estelita’s Forties and Fifties films on YouTube, and they show her at her best: a polished performer in her peak years with lots of charisma and stage presence. The Estelita renaissance has also gotten a huge boost by the recent publication of the novel Find Me in Havana by Serena Burdick. Based on the true life of Estelita and interviews with daughter Nina, Find me in Havana tells its story through letters the two exchange.

[1] 1928 is given as her official year of birth, though some sources claim the year as early as 1915 or 1913.

[2] To be sure IMDB lists some television credits during those years.

[3] It’s our loss that Estelita doesn't sing in the film, a luxury by the way afforded Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson, who between them had two songs.

[4] Estelita was reportedly working on a cinematic biography of Lupe Velez when she died. In the film she was to portray the famed Mexican film star of the Forties.

warm memories in a cold climate : My Winnipeg (2007)

My Winnipeg. IFC Films; the Documentary Channel presents; produced by Jody Shapiro, Phyllis Laing; conceived and directed by Guy Maddin; written and narrated by Guy Maddin; produced with the participation of The Canadian Television Fund and Manitoba Film and Sound; produced by Everyday Pictures/ Buffalo Gal Pictures; a Documentary Channel original production; Paddlewheel Productions Inc. and February Pictures Inc. Director-approved DVD special edition. New York, N.Y. : The Criterion Collection, c[2015]. 1 videodisc (80 min.). Originally released as a motion picture in 2007. Director of photography, Jody Shapiro; editor, John Gurdebeke; production designer, Rejean Labrie; costume designer Meg McMillan; art director, Katharina Stieffenhofe; animation, Andy Smetanka; executive producer, Michael Burns; dialogue by George Toles. Performers: Ann Savage, Louis Negin, Amy Stewart, Darcy Fehr, Brendan Cade, Wesley Cade, Lou Profeta, Fred Dunsmore.
Summary: “The geographical dead center of North America and the beloved birthplace of Guy Maddin, Winnipeg is the frosty and mysterious star of Maddin's docu-fantasia. A work of memory and imagination, Maddin's film burrows into what the filmmaker calls ‘the heart of the heart’ of the continent, conjuring a city as delightful as it is fearsome, populated by sleepwalkers and hockey aficionados. What is real and what is fantasy is left up to the viewer to sort out in Maddin's hypnotic, expertly conceived paean to that wonderful and terrifying place known as My Hometown." - Container.


   I finally got around to watching My Winnipeg – my local library has the DVD – and it was a total delight, so much so that I pay it the greatest compliment I can to a movie: I simply didn’t want it to end. My Winnipeg conjured up many cinematic associations: Citizen Kane, 1920s German expressionist films, the early Thirties surrealist fantasies of Luis Buñuel, also overtones of television programs like One Step Beyond and The Twilight Zone. But for me the film closest to My Winnipeg is the similarly pastiche-esque semi-documentary L A. Plays Itself.

   A confession: this is the first Guy Maddin film I’ve seen, though I’d heard about The Saddest Music in the World and actually seen snippets. At first I thought MW would be a documentary, which it is, sort of, and further, upon finding out Ann Savage was in it assumed she would play herself, which she (almost) does, in a bizarre sort of way. But not the way I’d expected, which would have been a q&a interview type thing. And I also presumed Miss Savage was a resident of Winnipeg, which it turns out she wasn’t.

   In any case Maddin’s phantasmagoric take on his hometown is a combination of affection, nostalgia, sadness and sometimes (barely concealed) bitter irony. He recreates – albeit mostly fancifully – the wintry, drowsy city’s by turns colorful, bland and absurdist history using surreal montages, faux newsreels and other visual tricks of the trade.

   The flickering, rather frantic pacing notwithstanding, My Winnipeg is just plain beautiful to look at, even, especially, all those snowy vistas which Maddin doesn’t try to hide. How could he? Moreover, and underscoring MW’s vaguely leftist vibe, Maddin doesn’t conceal his contempt for the city’s inexorable march toward progress and modernity at the cost of demolishing much that is true and beautiful in Old Winnipeg. And let it be said our subject city isn’t a unique case: hardly a metropolitan area has escaped the grim reaper’s pitiless scalpel. Thus Maddin’s beloved city is a place whose people have been let down by their politicians and whose cultural inner life has much in common with the sleepwalker.

   My favorite tableaux include Citizen Girl; the bit about the horses’ heads; Ledge Man; and most of all, the séance, a brilliant set piece evoking silent movies and ballet as strains of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde waft gently if ominously in deep background. Indeed the mostly gloomy music throughout serves as the perfect undercurrent. The way the jangly, creepy music perfectly complements the grainy black & white look recalls yet another film, the cult horror classic Carnival of Souls. A true treat is the legendary Ann Savage in her last film as Maddin’s mother. She still has much of the same fiery attitude she strutted in her most famous role Vera in Detour some six decades prior.

   After being thoroughly wowed by the film’s bizarre, dreamlike vision, I’m tempted to say Guy Maddin is the Orson Welles of the Twenty-first century – but I won’t. And yet, like Welles with Citizen Kane, Maddin impresses not only by way of technical razzle-dazzle but by the emotional content and narrative drive present in My Winnipeg.

   Still, even with its state-of-the-art techniques, the film has much the look and feel of a silent movie, and for all Maddin’s insightful and immensely entertaining narration, I have the sense that the spoken track could have been omitted entirely and sufficed with story cards, and the film’s emotional impact wouldn’t have lessened a bit.

   I confess I’ve been to Winnipeg – once, about thirty years ago – and have a vaguely positive memory, but after viewing My Winnipeg I pay the film a valedictory compliment: it makes me want to go back to the city again – just not in January.